


Pussies Galore

by moth2fic



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, no kittens were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:28:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cats are essential to life, love and the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pussies Galore

**Author's Note:**

> Posted in honour of International Fanworks Day 2016.
> 
> A big thank-you to Small_Hobbit for her beta and for jokingly suggesting the title. I then decided to take her seriously and was also inspired to create cover art of a kind.
> 
> The pairing was in my head after Skyfall but the plot only fell into place after a throwaway remark in Spectre. No spoilers, but a knowledge of Spectre might enhance the enjoyment.

 

 

 

 

Q had turned his small flat into a fortress. There were bars on the windows, steel rods in the ceilings and floors, alarms all over the place including the bathroom in case anyone should try to creep in via the plumbing, and the door didn't have a conventional spy hole. Oh no. Too much danger of a bullet through the eye. Instead, there was a sort of periscope affair that he'd rigged up. He could stand to the left of the door and peek at visitors. The fact that most visitors were the postman, the landlord (who either didn't know or didn't care about the fortifications) or the lady next door with cake made no difference. You never knew.

 

The cats had a litter tray and a little pot of grass. On occasions they were desperate to go out into the world and he had arranged a kind of chute, designed to resemble the water chutes at leisure pools, with little hooks inside to enable a climb back up to the bedroom window where the chute started, but the entire thing was only of a diameter to fit a fairly slim and agile cat. If they overate, Mocha and Sydney knew they would be confined to barracks till they lost weight again.

 

He also placed things like hairs or scraps of paper at strategic locations or in the openings of drawers. His home laptop had an incredible amount of encryption and he carried the passwords in his head. He thought they would take long enough to crack to enable him to catch the person attempting it. He only ever brought work home on a flash drive in his breast pocket - or his trouser pocket - or the heel of his shoe. A different place each day, and not in any regular order.

 

He thought life was reasonably safe. For now. But he had had experience of people wanting to attack a humble researcher and he knew there were people who knew him so he was careful. Very careful indeed. And he always checked the lift before getting in. An empty lift was a safe lift.

 

A knock at the door at ten o'clock in the evening was strange. The postman delivered in the morning or at a pinch just after lunch. The landlord stuck to office hours. Mrs Golightly from next door would be asleep by this time of night, no doubt dreaming of new cake recipes. He hoped they might contain cinnamon.

 

Q switched off the news, which he watched every night as a kind of personal fantasy programme, took up his appointed station by the periscope thing and peeked. What he saw, or rather the person he saw was entirely unexpected.

 

James Bond was standing on his doorstep. A tired-looking, worried-looking James Bond, with a large cardboard box with a carry handle, almost like a pet transport box, in one hand.

 

Well, James would never ever ever be a danger to him on purpose. He might accidentally or even carelessly lead others to him or leave him dangling in suspense when he waltzed off onto an unofficial adventure, and he might be a little dishonest with equipment but he wouldn't harm Q. Of that, Q was sure. But what if this was one of the times he had led someone somewhere? And what was the situation with the box?

 

He remained peeking until he felt satisfied the corridor was truly empty. This observation was confirmed by Mr Ambrose from Flat 8 rolling home loudly having imbibed his usual over-intake of alcohol. Mr Ambrose took up a lot of room and was not steady on his feet. Any lurkers would have been bound to move in some way unless they were so far out of sight that they could not possibly reach Q's door in the time it would take to let James in.

 

Q wrestled with the chains and bolts as quickly as he could. Sometimes, he realised, he had made a prison for himself, as well as a castle, but he liked living.

 

"Come in, 007," he said.

 

"At last, Q." said James at exactly the same moment, almost falling into the flat and placing the box carefully on the floor, watching with fascination as his host re-bolted and re-chained the entrance.

 

"Would you like, I don't know, a drink or something?" He wasn't sure what he had. Possibly chamomile tea but then again, he often made do with grapefruit juice or cream soda (no added sugar) and somehow neither seemed quite the thing to offer a late evening visitor.

 

"Later." James took off his coat, showing himself to be very much off duty in jeans and a sweatshirt. One that had an incomprehensible logo on the front.

 

"Later? So there's to be a later? You haven't come to announce the apocalypse? I mean, a summons by email or phone would have got me to the office so it can't be anything official. But what do you want? Oh dear, that sounds rude. To what do I owe the honour?"

 

"You mentioned cats and I didn't know who else to turn to." At that moment the box miaowed and a suspicion about its contents crossed Q's mind. Mocha, who was asleep, was oblivious, but Sydney, who was carefully stroking the laptop keys, looked up, ears alert and whiskers quivering.

 

"You see." James stopped. Q had never heard him sound hesitant before. It was disarming, as if an unneutered tom had suddenly rubbed up against his leg wanting a caress.

 

"You see," he began again, " I was on my way home, found somewhere to park but a couple of streets away as usual, so I was on foot and there was a group of youths around a bin, clearly up to no good.   I chased them off of course." Of course, thought Q. The youths would still not be sure what did or didn't hit them. Whatever they had or hadn't done.

 

"And then I found these in the bin," said James, opening the box.

 

In one corner, two small kittens were cowering. One had his paws over his eyes but the other was glaring fiercely, daring these monsters to disturb his sibling further. For siblings they most definitely were. Delicately shaded chocolate point Siamese. Twins, Q thought. The one defending had a bandage on his tail and the other had a bandage over one of the paws shading his eyes. In the opposite corner of the box was a plastic container with some visible medical supplies and a carton of milk. No saucer.

 

"They were hurt. Not sure if the kids had hurt them or if they fought their way out of somewhere and the kids found them, or what. By the time I turned around the street was empty and it seemed better to rush them to a vet. Fortunately they accepted being carried in my jacket to the car. There's a vet nearby who advertises a round-the-clock emergency service so there we were. He bandaged them up and gave them shots and gave me stuff to give them. Seemed to think I'd keep them."

 

"You clearly have kept them," Q pointed out.

 

"I took them home. The vet lent me the carry box and there's no rush to return it. I called at the corner shop and got milk, but then when I'd changed and started really thinking about it I realised I hadn't the faintest idea and you did say cats." Sydney, by now, was peering into the box, and Mocha had woken up and was stretching yogic cat poses by the radiator.

 

"But they're beauties. Pedigrees. Somebody must be missing them. The vet must know who owns these, surely?"

 

"He said he had a suspicion and wouldn't return them if his licence depended on it," said James. "So here we are."

 

"I still don't quite see..."

 

"You said cats," said James, firmly. "You must have more idea than me. Look, you have two already and they aren't climbing the walls and they look well-fed, so..." Sydney sniffed and walked away, tail in the air, expressing disapproval of late night visitors who brought kittens and had no idea about cats. "...so I thought," James continued, but Q was getting the idea.

 

"Oh, no, I don't think so," he said, looking around for feline support but not finding it. Sydney was in the kitchen, rummaging, and Mocha, having finished his yoga, was watching from the windowsill with a look on his face that said he could be considered in the light of a Solomon come to judgement rather than an ally on either side.

 

Q scooped the kittens out of the box with a practised and assured movement. James watched, clearly fascinated by the process.

 

"How do you avoid getting scratched?"

 

"Easy." Q was concentrating on the squirming mass on his knee but tried to explain in words a non-pet person would understand. "You just have to be firm. If they think you're all-wise and all-benevolent and something like mum, then they won't resist you. Hesitate and you're lost." He hesitated himself then held out a ball of chocolate tipped fluff to the agent. "Firmly, now," he reminded him.

 

James took the fluff, handling it as if it might be a live grenade that must on no account slip out of his grasp. One that he would clutch until he knew everyone else was out of the danger zone rather than one he would dream of tossing away. The fluff stopped wriggling and settled, tiny paws kneading his thighs. He raised an eyebrow. "As I was saying, about being scratched," he said, and Q grinned.

 

They sat for a few moments admiring the two kittens. If it seemed incongruous to see the intrepid Bond with a cat on his lap it was also unusual to see Q entangled with something living instead of electronic devices, cables, and data. The stroking somehow synchronised and the purring did, too. Mocha jumped lightly from the windowsill to Q's shoulder, evidently a familiar and favourite perch, and looked on.

 

"The thing is," said James,” they have to have more meds in the night, and they need milk every three hours, and I know it's an immense imposition, but I couldn't think of anyone else, and I'll help. If you think I can, of course."

 

Q stared. Was 007 really offering to spend the night, caring for a couple of stray kittens? Well, yes, it seemed he was.

 

He placed his kitten gently on his chair as he got up and made sure a cushion was available to cuddle and cling to. A kitten wouldn't be harmed by rolling off the way a human baby would, but comfort was a grand thing for all young ones. To his delight, Mocha jumped down and began to lick the kitten's head.

 

Soon he had made a nest of cushions on the floor, placed the kitty litter tray nearer - not terribly hopefully but they could always try - and found a saucer for milk. He read the medicine instructions carefully and looked at the clock. They had a while yet. He went into the kitchen, fed Sydney automatically then made tea. He was right: it was chamomile.

 

He called back into the living room. "Honey?"

 

"I'm home," came the rather dry response.

 

"In your tea," he said, blushing at his failure to clarify.

 

"I'm sweet enough. Don't you think?"

 

Well, yes, he did, but he would never in a million years admit it, even if someone took pliers to his finger nails. Well, maybe then, but not before.  He added honey to his own cup and carried the drinks back into the living room, placing them on coasters near, but not too near, the laptop.

 

They sat sipping their tea and gazing at the kittens who were now curled up with Mocha wrapped round them in a kind of cat ball.

 

"They're really very pretty," Q said at last.

 

"Yes, they really are," said James, and suddenly Q was aware that James was no longer looking at the kittens but at him. At his eyes. Very directly and very contemplatively.

 

Surely he must have imagined it. He couldn’t mean... Q fluttered his eyelashes slightly, a very daring experiment and one James could ignore if he chose. Instead, his lips quirked and he leaned forward.

 

"Extremely pretty," he whispered, "especially at night and off duty, though sometimes at the office I've thought of saying something."

 

"But, b-b-but..." Q knew he was stammering but couldn't seem to control his voice. "You're only here for the kittens."

 

"They were an excellent excuse, and no, not one I manufactured. But I'd have found something, some time soon."

 

The conversation seemed to be skirting round something immense. A leopard in the living room. Q tried to take the edge off the atmosphere. "We should name them," he said.

 

"Now?" An eyebrow rose. "Well, if you think it's essential. Any ideas?"

 

"Cats tend to name themselves as a rule. Mocha spilled a drink all over me and Sydney chewed a postcard. I'm not sure about these two. Cocoa, I think, for one. Chocolate point, you see."

 

"Which? Or maybe it doesn't matter yet. Maybe Honey for the other?" They looked at each other in satisfied accord and Q informed the kittens about their new designations. They purred and snuggled into Mocha's side, one of them, Cocoa perhaps, playing lightly with Mocha's tail. Sydney came over to join them; cushions on the floor were a novelty here. Soon there was an even larger ball of fur on the makeshift bed and the men had at least an hour to spare before any medical intervention was due.

 

Q read the instructions again, not because he needed to but to give himself something to appear to be concentrating on. James watched him. Then Q held out the leaflet, intending to show James some paragraph or other - he could never, later, remember which. But James put out a hand to take it, missed by a hairsbreadth and let his fingers come to rest on Q's thigh. There was perhaps an infinitesimal moment when he could have removed them. He didn't.

 

Q hardly dared breathe as James pressed down a little harder.. Then the fingers crept higher and pressed deeper. That drew a gasp. And quickly, so quickly it was like some action movie sequence or one of the agent's own moves in a dangerous situation, Q was picked up without ceremony, like a damsel in distress. He was no damsel but he failed to struggle, just as James had failed to remove his fingers.

 

It was a small flat, and only a few steps to the bedroom. Q had a second to be thankful he had made the bed before he was dumped on it. His shirt was undone very quickly and peeled back efficiently but his cuff buttons broke away under the strain and skittered across the room. Sydney came to investigate but realising they were plastic and not biscuit, sniffed and departed.

 

Belt next, and then the delicious but frightening coolness of air on his rapidly heating groin as his trousers were pulled down. In a fast and economic movement Bond stripped off his own sweatshirt and undid his jeans. Then he was on top of Q and there were kisses. Kisses to the lips, to the ears, to the nose, and to the wildly fluttering eyelashes.

 

"I thought," said Q, desperately, "your licence to kill only covered guns. And enemies."

 

The eyebrows both rose, almost to 007's hairline.

 

"Only, you're suffocating me. I'm no fragile flower but you're - oof - very solid and I can't breathe. Or at least, not as well as I'd like, and I'd really like, because then I could really enjoy this, whatever it is. And now I'm babbling, but..." His speech was cut off by the simple expedient of lips and tongue capturing his, but James obligingly propped himself up on his elbows, relieving some of the pressure.

 

He didn't say anything but began to caress Q, the pads of his fingers painting invisible patterns on his chest and shoulders. Q wondered if he would be able to see the tracks next day in the mirror. He knew they would stay with him for a long time.

 

The fingers moved downwards, making him arch his hips slightly and give a rather pathetic moan. Then their cocks were touching, deliberately, and the sensation dizzied him.

 

"You're good at this," he said. "You must have had so much practice. I knew about the women, but not the men."

 

"There haven't been many men. But the principle's the same until the last moment, you know, and even then, it's just all about sharing pleasure. You like it, I assume?"

 

"Like? Well of course I like it. I'll like it for ever, even when you move on to the next."

 

"Hmm? Why would I move on? You're here, in London, near me every time I'm not out on some mission somewhere. And even then you're at the end of whatever communication device I'm using. I won't be moving on unless you tell me to."

 

"As if..." He was stopped again, as their bodies took over and they began to move against each other, friction piling on friction until he thought he might faint from the intensity. He was raised just off the bed, strong hands gripping his arse cheeks, and still the frantic rubbing continued while James now made sure not to press too hard on his chest. Considerate, charming, assured. Amazing, really, but then James was good at everything he set out to do so it shouldn't really be a surprise. His thoughts were whirling, a dizzy dance of irrelevant scraps of happiness and acceptance. Then a golden light, briefly, and completion. He lay unable to speak or move while James shuddered to his own climax and then rolled away slightly so that both of them could simply lie still and recover.

 

It was like the aftermath of a mission, the period of satisfaction and relief before a debriefing and before the real world intruded. Q wondered if he would ever be so happy again, if it could all possibly get any better or even be as good. And yet in a sexual sense they'd barely touched the tip of the iceberg.

 

"My sweet Q," said James. "But then I don't suppose your name is Q, is it?"

 

He told him his name, shyly, and James whispered it back to him. Then he straddled him again, careful not to bear down, but covering his face, his throat, his chest, with kisses, laving his nipples with a tongue that rasped but soothed, and murmuring endearments in too low a tone for Q to hear exactly what they were.

 

That was the point at which Mocha joined them, walking delicately up James' right leg and then onto his buttocks, claws only hinted at but ready to cling. He teetered at the highest point. James had a momentary look of fight or flight reaction, seemed almost ready to reach for a gun - and who could blame him, attacked from behind? Then he steadied and remained very still.

 

"Love me, love my cats?" he said, his voice barely quivering.

 

"They are, after all, why you came tonight." Q tried hard to keep all amusement out of his own voice.

 

"Oh? I thought that was a result of us, together, skin on skin."

 

"You know what I mean, but yes, love me, love my cats. And don't forget I seem to have four of them now, thanks to you."

 

"A lover's gift."

 

"You went searching for abandoned kittens to bring me?"

 

"No, but it worked out well. And maybe this is where we give them their next doses?"

 

It was touch and go but Mocha was dislodged without breaking skin. They forced themselves off the bed, fastening their trousers but making no other concession to dressing, and went into the living room where they dealt with the meds and were pleased to see that Mocha and Sydney had taken over parenting duties and the cushions were reasonably clean. Q explained that even male cats would do that if they thought they owed some kind of responsibility to the kittens. And as Mocha and Sydney were both neutered, they were each even more likely to play daddy to the new pair.

 

"You mean you had their man bits cut off?" James sounded horrified.

 

"I don't want cats that roam, that smell, that fight, that populate the neighbourhood with strays," said Q. "It's a humane way of keeping the local cat count under control and giving this lot a good home. And yes, Cocoa and Honey will go under the knife sooner rather than later, and take that frown off your face."

 

James laughed, one hand straying to his own man bits. "I'll defer to your cat expertise," he said. "Just, I didn't think you were the type to go in for emasculation. Rather reminds me of some of the villains we've dealt with."

 

The way he used 'we' so casually was disarming. Q felt included, validated, appreciated. He looked around wanting to offer something to celebrate the moment - the medicated cats, the deep accord, the post-sexual glow. Somehow, chamomile tea wasn't going to cut it, he thought. Then he remembered a bottle he'd had for ever. He thought M might have given it to him for Christmas one year. The old M, not the new one. The new one was more likely to give a bonus or maybe a theatre ticket.

 

He delved into the back of the cupboard, behind all the forgotten cables and chargers and wireless mice, and came up with a bottle of vodka.

 

"Martini it isn't," said James, " but it has possibilities. Have you anything to put in it? Even an olive would do."

 

Q was doubtful but offered grapefruit juice which, since it was chilled, turned out to be an excellent choice. No olives but there was a rather ancient lemon that they sliced and slipped over the rims of their glasses.

 

They drank to each other, solemnly clinking their glasses first. Q didn't often drink alcohol and he felt fire seep slowly down his throat, pooling somewhere in his chest. Probably in his stomach but he thought it felt more like his heart.

 

They watched the cats, the older pair monitoring and cleaning the younger. Then Cocoa - they decided later that it had to be Cocoa because of the clown connotations even though the name was not quite that - sat up and seemed to survey the bandage on his paw. It evidently annoyed him and he shook it. A tiny frown squidged his face and he shook harder. And harder. The little bandage came flying off, landing near Q's feet. Cocoa looked to Sydney for approval then curled up again against his brother.

 

James was worried. "Should we try to put it back?"

 

"No, he'll only shake it off again now he's learnt how. And so far as I can see those are only bad scratches. They aren't bleeding any more and fresh air will help them heal. That and a good licking now and then. By his own tongue or one of the others," he added, seeing the look on James' face.

 

"What about Honey's tail? Will he shake that dressing off?"

 

"If he does, the same will apply, but he'll probably keep it longer; a tail bandage isn't quite as annoying as a paw one. Or quite as easy to shift."

 

James finished his drink and stood up. "Then if they're all right, we're all right and we can finish what we started."

 

"I thought we finished."

 

"And I think you have a lot to learn. I'll enjoy teaching you. Bed, now."

 

Q wasn't sure how they reached the bed. He thought he'd walked this time and was half aware of a warm hand guiding him, cupping his arse as they went. He didn't wait to be told, just stripping off his trousers and lying down. He'd been wearing slippers earlier in the evening, and these were long kicked off and perhaps lost. By the time he stretched out, waiting for his surprising lover, Bond was also naked and his cock was very very erect. But instead of taking up his former position he lay down beside Q, facing the foot of the bed. 

 

Almost at once, Q's cock was engulfed in wet heat. There was the tiniest hint of teeth and danger, and the seduction of a sucking motion, and then, and then... As well as the exquisite feelings centred on his cock, there was another. A finger was gently inserted into his arse. Only up to maybe the first knuckle but it set his whole body alight with terror and longing. He'd done this before, but it had never mattered quite as much, been so brilliant or so shocking. He made a totally vain attempt to hold on, to wait, but his orgasm took over and he spilled into James' mouth, trying to extract himself and finding the other hand, the one not playing with his arse, grasping him very firmly and holding him in place while James swallowed.

 

The aftershocks lasted a long time but eventually he felt able to rummage in the bedside table and offer condom and lube, which James took with a satisfied grin, one that made him look both boyish and gloating. Then Q found he could actually quite easily raise his legs to James' shoulders, and a little preparation made penetration easy and he saw diamonds and stars and the earth probably moved out of orbit and returned while he was away from his senses. It didn't take long for James to come, either, but he made sure he gave maximum pleasure to his partner in the process.

 

"Licensed to kill," offered Q, nuzzling James' throat.

 

"Only in exceptional circumstances," came the reply. "I think these count, don't you?"

 

They had to get up again, of course, to see to their tiny patients, and this time it was Sydney who reminded them, leaping onto the pillow and opening Q's eyelid with a very tentative claw to see if anyone was in.

 

They didn't bother dressing, and the cats didn't seem to mind, though James thought having Mocha kneading his knees without cloth between them was perhaps not ideal.

 

"He won't hurt you. And you won't hurt him," said Q. "Love me, love my cats, remember?"

 

James deposited Mocha on the floor, suppressing a slight 'ouch' as the claw tips disengaged.

 

"More vodka?" he asked, hopefully.

 

"I think we had enough first time, and I'm about out of juice," said Q, as he refastened the cap of the medicine container. "At least," he continued, as if it had been part of the conversation, "kittens don't mind medication as much as adult cats do. I don't think they think it's milk, exactly, but they seem to be programmed to swallow." Then he blushed at the word 'swallow' and busied himself tidying the cats and the medicine and taking the glasses from earlier into the kitchen.

 

"Maybe I don't need vodka," said James, behind him. "But I do need you, in bed."

 

Q was startled. The sex was good, but he wasn't sure he could keep up. It turned out James just wanted to hold him, so that was all right. They were both sleepy and it wouldn't be long till morning. He just hoped there were no national or international emergencies coming with the dawn.

 

James didn't seem worried at all. "We can lie in,” he said. "The world couldn't be so unkind as to demand our presence till mid-morning. Then we can plan for tomorrow night."

 

"We'd better buy some vodka and grapefruit, too," said Q, wondering if he was expected to feed James or merely keep him supplied with drink and sex.

 

"No need," murmured his new partner. "I'm fine with just you... Shaken _and_ stirred.  Exactly the way I really like it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
